The Phantom Continued
by lesmisgirl
Summary: Gaston Leroux is visited one afternoon by Juliette de Chagny who has found her mother's diary and wishes to have the true fate of The Opera Ghost known.
1. An Unexpected Visitor

I was sitting quite alone in my little office on the day Juliette de Chagny first visited me.

She fluttered into my office (quite unannounced) on a sunny afternoon in February. I had looked up from my papers, aiming on being cross with this sudden interruption, but found myself unable to speak as I gazed upon her. I thought in that moment that the Christine Daaé I'd gained my fame in writing upon had manifested in my small office. She certainly fit the description of the woman I'd had dedicated the better part of a year writing about. Though I knew very soon that it was impossible for this woman to be her. Christine Daaé would be nearing fifty at the time this woman appeared. This woman seemed no older than thirty.

I stood, "Mademoiselle. Can I help you?"

In truth, I would not normally acknowledge such a random guest in this way. My little book, _The Phantom of the Opera,_ has gained much esteem in Paris and I was often swarmed with fans who wanted more of the tale of this Opera Ghost. They'd come to my office in guises and ruse, only to beg me for more words of their tragic hero and forlorn heroine. I'd tell them there was nothing more to be said upon it, though they never wanted to believe me.

'How could Christine not love him?' The women of society wailed at me whilst their husbands scoffed.

'The man was a lunatic!' Spoke one.

'A genius, truly. And he lived!'

They'd say such things to me and stare at me like I were some prophet. I merely recited the facts. I knew no more than any of them, though of course I wished it were not so. I wished too to learn more about this ghost as his obsession, but found all information after to be increasingly sparse. After thorough research, I found that the Viscountess de Chagny gained great acclaim in the London Opera but had not been heard from in many years. She and the Viscount had three daughters and a son, all of which had names I'd forgotten and stories not written. Erik most certainly had died in his Opera house. There was nothing more to tell.

When this woman appeared who looked so much like Christine, I could not breathe. I would have thrown any other out of my office, for my office was my own domain. Thought as I stood with this specter in front of me, I found myself incapable of anything but manners.

She bowed her head, "Monsieur Leroux." I noticed then the other details about her. Her deep blue gown that reeked of her station and the long white gloves upon her hands. A hat-blue adored with white and black-rested upon pristine golden curls. Eyes lighter than a fair summer sky stared at me from beneath the hat's rim.

Besides her beauty, the most noticeable item was the leather bound notebook clutched in her hands.

"Please forgive my intrusion, sir, for I know you must be working." Her voice was as light and melodious as a lark. "Your secretary said I must come in once I had given my name." Like I'd written her myself in one of my detective stories, she slowly pulled out her hat pin and took off the deep blue hat. Those perfect eyes met mine again intently.

She began, "My name is Juliette de Chagny, eldest daughter of Raoul and Christine de Chagny."

I felt my hand grip the table tighter. The young aristocrat must have noticed it, for an elfish smile played upon her lips.

"I have read your book, sir, and found it to be most excellent. Thoroughly researched and very true. My mother and father spoke little of those times, you see, so it was good to know it all."

The woman shifted and I offered that she sit in the chair across from mine. I had no doubt of the truth of her words, for she was too like the woman I had written upon to be anything but. Juliette de Changy took a chair in my meager office and I returned to my own. In the notebook in front of me, I flipped to a new page.

"Though, sir, I must tell you that you that the ending you gave was not wholly complete."

I looked back to her and she flushed. Eagerly, she lifted the leather bound book and set it upon my desk. Her hands did not leave it.

"Monsieur Erik did not die upon that night in the tunnels, nor any night soon after." She looked to me for my expression. "I know, for I met him. I know for I…" I watched as she clutched the book, seeming to bring it nearer to herself.

She exhaled, "I have not seen my mother for many years. I've been in America, but came back recently to visit my sister, Adele, in London for she is having a child. Whilst there, I returned to my old family home and found this." Once again Lady Juliette held tightly to the book though she would not name it. "My mother's diary."

With that she unlaced it, opening it open with a croaking spine. I tried to steal a glance at the penmanship of this woman I'd written about, but the woman was quick to bring it her chest.

"Newspaper clippings and other things too. And I knew I must bring it to someone after I had read it." Once again, her eyes met mine. "I had read your book, sir, and thought you an honest man. A trustworthy narrator."

She looked at me like I was supposed to respond. I was about to when she spoke again.

"I have not seen mother in many years, as I've said, so I don't know how she would feel about this. But after your book, I think the world must truly know what became of Christine, Raoul, and Erik after that awful night in the catacombs."

"Yes," I answered ardently. Some great warmth was rising in my chest at the prospect. I could not hide that I was just as curious as my readers. There was nothing to be learned of the de Chagnys after that night. Save the names of their children and where the Countess sang. I found this Juliette to be truthful, for all she had said were facts of my research. Facts the general public were not privy to know.

I spoke again, "Yes, Mademoiselle. I would be happy to record if you let me."

A smile, "I shall not relinquish this, I am afraid. I find your writing to be honest, sir, but you'll forgive me if I wait to form my own opinion on whether you are." Once again, she drew the journal inward. "I shall not be returning to America until Adele has delivered and settled. I thought I might come by your office and read to you. I could add my own story in as well, what my father told me too. I know the order of these clippings and the details of the story." A hesitation, "If you should like me to, that is, sir."

"It would be an honor, Mademoiselle." I spoke and the woman rose once again. With a slight of her hand, the hat was back upon her head and her pin pushed in. Another elfish smile grew on her lips.

"I shall return tomorrow then, sir, if that is agreeable with you." She clutched the book. "Whatever hour bests suits you."

"Your earliest convience, Mademoiselle."

She thought. "Let's say one in the afternoon. That should do nicely for me, sir."

"Wonderful, Mademoiselle." I stepped out from behind my desk, her blue eyes fixed upon me. She looked so very much like the woman I'd written upon that a chill crept upon my spine. A strange and starting chill, like this woman might be more specter than reality. A feeling I dismissed immediately as an author's imagination.

She nodded, "Thank you, sir. I shall see you tomorrow."


	2. The London Opera

In these past three months, Mademoiselle de Chagny has visited with me nearly every day and relayed all of her fascinating tale. I did so enjoy her visits for she was excellent company and an excellent story teller, though I do not suppose I shall ever see her again. Which is not a trouble for I have her story. A truly exquisite story, far better than the first one I believe. Far more romantic. I never considered myself and author of romance.

For those of you curious, I did have Mademoiselle de Chagny's identity verified and she is exactly whom she claimed to be. I knew it by looking at her, but of course paper documentation is far more trustworthy than the gut feeling of an old man. She was twenty eight years old. Married at age twenty two and widowed at age twenty six. Her sister was Adele Lioncourt, twenty one years old and married for two years to a man who owned a shipping company. The brother was Viscount Christian de Chagny, twenty five years old and living in the family estate in Paris with his wife and twin sons.

There was a third sibling listed. Angelé Muhlheim. I wondered if she'd been adopted. Aristocratic families would often adopt children of poorer families in the village as a kind of charity. A dastardly kind of charity in my opinion. The child would be raised as an outsider, rarely accepted by its siblings. I could not think my Christine capable of such an unfeeling act.

"Angelé was mother's daughter from her second marriage." Juliette had explained the next day when I inquired. "Are you studying up on all of us, Monsieur?"

"Just the necessities," I said as diplomatically as possible. The hint of distaste had risen on her lip in a way I did not like.

"My husband died of cancer, if you are curious." Her voice created ice in the air. "Hereditary, they told me. There was nothing to do."

My throat was dry, "I am sorry."

She shrugged, "Never mind it, Monsieur. We have come to discuss mother, not myself." She pulled out her note book. "Shall we begin?"

 **OOO**

Juliette began her story eight years after the events of my novel. For those eight years, her family lived quite normally. Her parents were as loving as any couple, she remembered. Juliette and her siblings had a wonderful and privileged childhood of learning and gardens and music. They lived in Raoul's estate in the French country side: a large house with grounds as big as a city. Juliette was born first and three years later her brother. Adele was hardly a year old when the family moved to London for the opera season. Christine had booked the lead in the London Opera Company, a very prestigious position, and Juliette remembered being excited to go to the city. She'd only ever been to Paris to see her mother perform. Never at the old Opera house, of course. Christine would never go there again. Across the city, Christine brought acclaim to another Opera theatre. Juliette thought her mother was the most beautiful singer who'd ever lived.

Raoul did as well. He was doting and loving upon his nightingale of a wife. Christine had been wary about taking the family to London, but it was he who insisted they go. He could do his work from the city and take a train back to Paris if it needed to be done. 'The whole world should hear you sing,' he'd told her. So Christine took the job and the family packed up for the summer.

Their house in London was grand. Much smaller than their country home but larger than their town house in Paris. Juliette liked it as did her brother. Adele could not say much upon her feelings, but did not seem upset with the move. Christine had this odd look upon her face like she expected something to go wrong. Juliette had noted it and her mother just smiled and said she'd miss their cook's lemon pies, that was all.

On her mother's first rehearsal day at the London Opera, Juliette asked if she could come with her.

"It will be rather boring for you, my sweet." Christine had said. "The first rehearsals are never too much fun."

"What am I to do, mother?" Juliette had wined. Approximately one week prior, Juliette had decided she was far too old to listen to her governess and play games with her brother. "Christian does not play anything that is fun and Adele cannot even talk! Father's off doing work and Miss Giry will make me study." Her mother had laughed at her, but not in a vicious way. She reached and stroked her daughter's cheek kindly.

"Heaven forbid Miss Giry makes you read a novel."

Meg Giry, Christine's friend from the ballet company of the opera, had been their governess when she quit from the company. She had come with them to London, something Juliette remembers her being so very excited about, for she too had never left France.

Juliette pouted, "Please, mama. You'd let me come with you in Paris. I love to hear you sing."

Christine relented, "All right. But you must be very good and very silent, else they'll lock you in the costume room with all the other noisy little girls." She teased, tickling her daughter's stomach.

"They do not do that!" Juliette protested as her mother laughed. She put out a hand that Juliette took, following her mother outside and onto the bustling streets of London. They took a carriage to the theatre and all the while Juliette had her face pressed against the window taking in all that she could see. It was beautiful and maddening and Juliette wanted to explore every corner of it. Far too quickly, they reached the opera house and Christine took her daughter's hand as they went inside. They met the managers who dotted on her quite sweetly.

"She looks just like you, Madame," said the one with the mustache. He gazed at her mother very strangely. "It is so very good to see you again."

She nodded, "You as well, Monsieur Firmin." There was the heaviest of silences in the air. A silence Juliette did not know but so desperately desired to.

Then they were in the theatre. Juliette gaped at the grandness of it. The one her mother performed in in Paris had not been as old or as large as this one. Everything was red and gold with gilded angels and beautiful paintings. A chandelier made of crystals was as large as the ceiling.

"Look, mother!" Juliette had pointed. Her mother did not look.

"This was made by the same architect," said the mustached man. Juliette noted her mother's hand had grown limp. Her face had grown cold and her eyes glossed over. Juliette felt that strange and particular feeling a child gets when they see their parent in fear. "The chandelier is the same. I do hope this does not upse-"

"It does not," Christine said in a strange voice. It was then Juliette noted what must be the rest of the company sitting in chairs around a piano on the stage. They all stood and applauded for her mother. Juliette felt cheered by their smiled and yells though her mother did not seem to be all too much affected.

Juliette forgot the strangeness as the rehearsal went on. Her mother sang beautifully. It was the same parts over and over. Juliette knew how rehearsals worked. They'd sing one song a hundred times until it sounded good enough, then they'd move to the other and do exactly the same thing. Juliette was courteous and quiet. She was rather certain her mother had been joking about her being locked in the costume room, but she was extra quiet just in case she was not.

The last song they sang was when everything got peculiar.

"Is this a new opera, Monsieur? I do not recognize the title." Christine had asked of the man behind the piano. " _Liebe Stirbt Nie_." Her mother said the words with another odd look on her face. Her fingers touched the music like someone possessed by it. The mustache man stepped out again, a forced smile on his face.

"Yes, Madame. It's by a composer here in London. His second produced work."

"His second work…" Her mother's voice trailed off, flipping through the music rapidly. "The music looks like his…"

The mustache man stepped forward, "Madame de Chagny-"

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" Her mother said in the voice usually reserved for when Juliette or her siblings were in very deep trouble. She looked around the opera house that fear coming back into her face. Juliette felt like crying, for if her mother was so scared than something was truly wrong. Something truly awful was happening. The woman sitting next to Juliette saw her tears and patted her shoulder kindly, mumbling something about her not needing to cry.

Christine thrust the music into the mustached man's hands, turning to Juliette and taking her in had instead.

"Come, Juliette. We're leaving."

"Madame de Changy-"

She whipped around, "Is he here? Does he work for you?" Her breaths grew rapid, frantic. "Is he here now? My daughter is here! My God, how could you?" Closer her mother clutched her, like someone was going to take her away. Were they going to take her away? Juliette was sobbing and her mother cooed softly to her but it did not help.

Her mother took her and led her down the stair and into the theatre house. Juliette looked up at the chandelier and wondered if she'd ever see it again. Behind her, she heard the company whispering. 'Her opera ghost,' Juliette heard. 'From Paris. Oh, it's a frightening tale. Poor girl. Poor girl.' Juliette did not know what that meant, but a ghost did not sound pleasant. She heard the piano man dismiss the company and they all scattered into the wings. The mustache man followed them.

"Madame de Chagny, please! It is a work of such genius. Only you can sing it! We will double your salary. Triple your salary!"

Christine turned, "I know he is a genius, Monsieur Firmin, but you are mad if you think I'll ever give him my voice again! You're mad!"

" _Christine…Christine….Christine…"_

The voice echoed deep within the walls of the theatre, yet no one had spoken her mother's name. This voice did not sound fearful and yet it filled Juliette with dread. Her mother moaned like a kicked dog, and fell into one of the grand, red, theatre seats. She held her head in her hands, sobbing into them with groans and sighs.

"God in heaven," Christine groaned. "Not again. Not again."

"Mama!" Juliette whimpered, crying to see her mother crying. She put her hand on her mother's shoulder but she did not move. "Mama, please! I'm scared!" Something in her words roused her mother out of the trance, wiping her red eyes and noticing her daughter's tears. Christine rubbed them away with her thumbs, placing a kiss upon her daughter's forehead.

"Don't be frightened, my sweet. Mama will make things right." She stood slowly, the mustached man reaching out to help her but Christine blatantly refused the offer. "Monsieur Leigh will take you home in the carriage." Monsieur Leigh was their driver and had been with the de Chagny's since Raoul was a boy. "Mother has to stay and talk with Monsieur Firmin."

Juliette whimpered, "No, mama. Don't leave me alone."

"I am so sorry, my sweet." Christine kissed her daughter's head over and over. "I'll be home very soon, yes? Just tell papa that mama had to talk to the manager. Miss Giry will get you a snack. You can have cake. All the cake you like."

"Mama, no…"

Christine sobbed, "I must, my sweet. I'm sorry."

Juliette was ushered off to the carriage and back to her home. Once there, Miss Giry and her father asked her what was wrong and Juliette said what her mother had instructed. She did not mention a ghost or a phantom voice or her mother crying. She ate a piece of cake while Miss Giry tried to brighten Juliette's face with silly expressions. Juliette pretended that they worked but they did not. She kept thinking about her mother. Her mother and the phantom voice that had made her cry in fear.

In our next chapter, Christine meets again with her opera ghost.


	3. Dear Old Friend

Juliette sat at the window and waited for her mother. Her father inquired as to why she was doing so and Juliette said that mother was going to tell her about the rest of the rehearsal as soon as she got home and she simply couldn't wait to hear. Her father smiled in a wistful way and gave her a kiss on the head. Juliette's brother ran up at one point and asked her to play toy soldiers with him but she said she didn't want to and he grew very upset and stormed away. Adele sat in her swing and did not say much.

When the carriage pulled up, Juliette stood and placed her face against the window. Her mother stepped out and was not crying and in her arms was more music than she'd had earlier. Her mother looked just as beautiful as always and smiled and waved the driver on to the carriage house. When the door to the house opened, Christine nearly tripped upon her daughter for she'd rushed forward far too suddenly.

"Oh, my darling!" Christine gasped, clutching the music that threatened to fall. "You must not sneak up on me like that. I almost stepped upon your toes!" She leaned down to face her daughter, smiling at her like the strangeness from earlier had not happened at all. With her free hand she reached out and stroked her cheek. "I know you were very frightened earlier, my sweet, but everything is all right now."

"But what happened, mama?" Juliette asked quietly. "What was that voice? And why were you so frightened of it? Are you going to go back to the opera?"

Christine smiled, "Everything is fine, Juliette. You must trust me. And yes, I'm going back to the opera. Things are just different than mama thought, that's all."

Juliette received no more on the subject of that day. When she asked her mother again in the evening, she told her the same thing. 'It's not a concern' and 'everything is fine' but Juliette knew she was lying. Everything could not be fine when that voice had terrified her mama so. Part of her wanted to tell father about it, but it felt a betrayal to mother to do so. Mother seemed not bothered by it anymore and kissed her father as she always did and smiled at him with light in her eyes. Juliette would not want to spoil that. Father so hated when mother was upset. Mother would get upset sometimes at night about a noise or a bird's song. Father was always so good to her whenever that happened, but Juliette knew it hurt him to see mother so sad. She would not tell him.

Though Juliette had no more story of the day herself, her mother's diary revealed a keen drawing out of the events. Christine had watched her daughter fly away in the carriage, feeling a relief beyond reason that her daughter was out of his clutches. This was Christine's ghost to ward away, not Juliette, and she would not have her daughter fight such a battle.

Christine reentered the London Opera, finding Monsieur Firmin with a smile on his face to see her back.

"What does he have over you?" Christine asked pointedly before the old man could speak. His smile waivered but stayed sewed upon his face.

He blinked, "What do you mean, Madame?"

"He has something over you or you would not be assisting him. I know very well how he operates."

Monsieur Firmin tried to keep his smile, but Christine saw it crumbling. She thought back to the old days. The old days where she was scared and sweet and naïve. No longer would she be such a creature. Perhaps she was cold, but it would save her from destruction. It would save her family from destruction. Before, Christine had nothing at stake. She was a lost orphan, desperate for any sort of attention and companionship. No longer. No longer would she be taken in with pretty promises and ghostly threats. There was too much at stake now and she would be taking part in no games. Erik was no angel and no demon but a man. A sad and lonely man who need not have his whims catered too. He was capable of evil, but he was no all-powerful demon. On no sort of pedestal would she place him again.

The man spoke softly, "I lost everything after The Opera Populaire burned to the ground. I had no more money and no more partners. He found me and offered we share his money. I owe him…everything. We worked in the underground of theatres until coming here two years ago. He was waiting to send for you."

"Send for me?" Christine huffed dryly. "So this was all his design. This is his money I'm singing for, his theatre." She shook her head. "I will not do this. My family is here. My children are here. I will die before I let him harm my child or even think about harming my children."

"Your children will not be touched."

The voice came not from the mustached man but from an all too familiar one behind her. That strength and control she had felt faded in an instant and her fear came back all at once. Damn him having such an affect upon her. Like he were still a thing of the cosmos to her, she felt commanded by his voice. A voice that had spoken to her through dressing room walls and echoes in a hallway for three years. She had never doubted he was angelic. How intolerably stupid. Even so, she felt fear growing in her. Trying to ignore her feeling, she turned with as much poise as she could muster and saw him standing there.

He looked absolutely the same. It was unnerving. The same uncovered half of a human face with the inhuman part covered by a mask. The same cold stare of empty eyes. A dark black wig to compliment his dark black clothing, which was of a far finer material than it ever had been in Paris. A part of Christine had thought he'd died that night at The Opera House. The way he had sobbed into her skirts had torn her heart to shreds and yet she would not stay with him. Not after all he had done. He was a most pitiful creature, her angel, but a most fearful one as well.

"Madame de Chagny," he said with a half mocking tone. "Did you imagine you'd never see me again? Your Angel of Music." She heard the sound of feet moving away and knew Monsieur Firmin had left them alone in the house of the theatre. Christine recalled the great chandelier above them and wondered if he'd drop it now upon them all.

Christine straightened, "Make not a mockery of me, Monsieur. I am no longer a child. I will not be taken in by your charlatan's tricks or vicious threats." She hoped the words sounded strong and poised but she doubted they did. No longer did she feel the Prime Donna Opera Diva. No longer did she feel the Countess de Chagny. She felt eighteen and a ballet girl, standing in front of her progeny she so desperately wished to impress.

"It seems fame suits you," he spoke in that peculiar voice that haunted her mind every night. "Nobility does as well. You've confidence now. Coldness."

"Coldness?" Christine spat the word. "Forgive me, but I believe I have every right to be cold towards you."

He stalked nearer and Christine bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from having her fear show. Her fists she balled to her sides, hoping he would not see the tears that were forming now in her eyes. It seems a part of her had missed him, thought she could not fathom why. He'd been her first music teacher, but Christine had had ten music teachers since him. He was not important. She should not be crying. She should not be…yearning. Idiot. She knew what he was capable of and that she should entrust him with nothing. Not her voice. Not her time. Not her soul.

He ceased moving.

"I understand your animosity, Madame. Believe me, I understand." The Phantom stepped past her now, walking towards the stage she had vacated not long ago. Christine turned slowly to see him and found him still going along his path. He wanted her to follow. This was his game. His game where he had already thought out the moves and counter moves.

Damning herself as she did, she followed him to the stage.

He spoke, "I need you to sing this role for me, Christine. Sing this for me: it is all I ask."

"You're insane if you think I'll agree to this," Christine said instantly. Though she still followed him up onto the stage. "I owe you nothing."

Erik let out a laugh. A strong, harsh, and dry laugh that echoed in the very bones of the theatre. She wished he did not make her fell so little. Theatres usually made her feel large and very grand, but he made her feel so small and insignificant. Her mind felt now as empty as the large space.

"You would've stayed in the ballet if I had not tutored you. It would be you a nanny, not Meg Giry."

Christine had a mind to inquire how he knew that, but he continued before she could.

"You would have never been heard or adored or played all the great cities. Perhaps even your Viscount would not have noticed you, if I had not noticed you first." He strutted around the stage in his great role, it seeming he too had grown in his confidence. He certainly had not forgotten his showmanship. "Your voice is my legacy, Christine. My only legacy. Sing this role for me and I shall leave you alone forever. You have my word. You'll never need see me or speak to me again." Once again he moved nearer, Christine's mind racing too quickly at all he had said. He was some kind of hypnotist to have this power over her. He approached her, moving around her like he'd do when she would practice her singing for him. Like she was eighteen and his pupil again. His again. She felt possessed. Utterly insane. "I shall triple the salary. This role shall be your crowning achievement, Christine. I've written it all for you. You'll need work, of course, but you will be rapturous. Unlike anything ever heard before."

The Angel of Music moved past her, controlling her in her strange, dreamlike haze. She moved to the spot she had stormed away from earlier, wrapping her fingers around the gilded music stand. His music had been placed back upon it, open to an aria written especially for her. She drew her fingers down the page, hearing somewhere in the back of her mind him playing music for her. Yes, her Angel playing music just for her. Again she was that naïve fifteen year old who first heard his music and deemed he must be something sent from heaven just for her. For three years he was her teacher, her angel, her guardian.

"Measure 23," he spoke. Christine saw that was wear her vocal line was written. His small penmanship was recognizable. He'd always written her notes, songs, and he'd deliver them so secretly she thought he was some sort of spirit to have done it. Christine had believed him. For three years of her adolescence she believed he was the angel sent to guide her. Those formative years had truly messed with her mind it seemed, for even in the years past she saw his everywhere. She heard his music as she went to bed. She thought she had evaded him eight years ago under the opera house but she never really had. Still he possessed her. Still a part of her soul was his and always would be it seemed. Now he wanted her to sing. Perhaps she should sing…

Something snapped inside of her and Christine realized where she was. She remembered who she was and what year it was and everything awful he had ever done to her. She thought of her daughter, Juliette, who had been so frightened. Dear Juliette, Christine needed to find her and apologize. And Raoul. Her wonderful husband. It felt a betrayal to be here with Erik while Raoul was home and knew nothing. Oh God, if he found out. Raoul would do something absolutely idiotic if he knew. He must never know.

"No," Christine protested ardently. "No, I will not sing."

"Measure 23," he repeated like he had not heard her.

 _Damn him_ , Christine swore, but her voice began to float like she had not control upon it. _I will show him he has no effect upon me. I will sing. I will sing as I always sing and then I will be gone. It is my job to sing. It is not my soul and my heart, but my job. And if I do this, if I sing his opera, then I will be rid of him._

A malicious voice that sounded like his laughed in her head _. You will never be rid of me. As long as you sing, you are mine._

"Stop this!" Christine spoke, his music ceasing abruptly. She felt mad again. Mad like she had been all those years ago. Mad enough to do stupid and drastic things and have everyone think her a child. "Stop this, I will not be taken in again. I am leaving. My contract has not been signed and I will not sign it!"

"Do you not miss is, Christine?"

She did not like it when he said her name. It made her skin crawl for him to say her name. Slowly, she turned around and saw him gazing at her from behind his piano. She should not even respond. The smart thing to do would be leave and never set foot into this opera house again. Christine would tell Raoul that the managers had been unkind or the cast dreadful or something to get them to go back home to their estate and forget all of this.

"You know it is not enough for you to be home with them while your soul years for music and art. I know your soul, Christine. I know you wish to be as you were before. Possessed by music, enlivened by art. Those concerts you sing, small performances you give in places not grand enough for you: they are not enough for you and you know it. You want what you had before." He stood up, moving towards her like a body in a trance. "You want passion and obsession and pure, perfect artistry. You and I, Christine, we can create that again. We can create that world you have so longed for."

 _Yes,_ Christine thought immediately as she gazed at his peculiar face. He had come closer, but she did not entirely remember when. His words filled her up like champagne, making her drunk on the thought of it. She did miss it. It had frightened her to pieces, but she did miss it. Christine missed the passion, the possession, the pure feeling of wholeness that music could give her. Her voice had not been an artist's tool in so long. Her voice had brought her success, but little joy. Her joy had been her husband, her children, her life. Her art had fallen to the side. Her soul had longed to have it, but it felt impossible. Perhaps it was possible now. Possible with him.

"We'll work together, you and I. You save me and I will save you." He had moved back to the piano, like she'd already agreed to sing. Like he'd tamed her and now she was his. "Those concerts and arias you've been singing have been very pretty, Christine, but you have forgotten your soul. You have forgotten your passion."

She could not think of what to say. She could not think of what to do. So easily she was under his spell. He was correct. That passion she'd had before had gone. When she was younger, art was all that could sustain her. Little love did she have to be fed upon, little attention. His passion had once filled her up and she wished so that it would do it again.

"We'll triple your original salary," he said like he were sealing the deal. "You'll rehearse first with the chorus, then afterwards with me. You do this for me and I will leave you alone once the season is done. I will not interfere with your home or your children. Even your Viscount is safe from me." The words hung in the air like an ominous storm cloud.

Her Phantom spoke, "Do we have a deal?"

 **OOO**

Christine's husband was suddenly behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders as she looked into her vanity. Though she had seen him approach, his touch made her quiver the slightest bit. He did not seem to notice it, thankfully. Even eight years later, Christine would still be easily frightened of things and Raoul always seemed so concerned when such things happen. Perhaps he thought she might attempt to throw herself from a rooftop should something frighten her too horribly. What an idiot she had once been.

 _What an idiot you are now_ , she remarked as she loosened her braid. Her lady's maid always tied it just a bit too tight for her liking. The braid felt confining in a way and especially irksome that night. Her mind kept drifting towards earlier and her devil's deal. She'd already told Raoul about the increase in her salary and he had been excited for her. He thought it was because they were so impressed by her talent. Christine had just smiled. She did so hate lying to him, but how could she tell him the truth? He'd go mad if he knew. The Opera Ghost needed to stay dead in his mind.

"How are you always so beautiful?" Her husband said with a sweet smile. A kiss he placed upon her head before moving into their bed.

Incomplete… Did she feel incomplete? Christine never felt such when she was with Raoul. She never felt lacking in passion or love when she was surrounded by her family. The art that had fed her for long had not seemed needed any more for she was filled with an entirely new feeling. A wonderful new feeling that filled her to the brim with happiness.

And yet his words had still struck her. Struck her so hard that she believed him.

Christine stood, deciding to leave all such thoughts out of her mind before getting into bed with her husband. Like she meant to prove a point to herself, Christine leaned over and placed a languorous kiss upon his lips.

"Darling," he laughed, pushing back the few fallen bits of hair. "What is it?"

"I love you." Christine kissed him again and did not feel incomplete. Yet the words still were ringing in her mind. His words. Her Phantom's words and his music pulling the strings inside of her soul into a very old and familiar song. A song of wanting and loneliness. A song she had long wanted to forget yet possessed her just as easily as it had before. He had molded her voice as they worked. They worked for but an hour and yet she felt reborn. Her voice had not been treated as an instrument in so long. As a work of art. As something truly unique and worthy of admiration.

Raoul smiled, "I love you too, my Christine."

The words did not make her feel better. They made her feel all the more terrible for lying.


End file.
